A Path Less Traveled (14 page)

Trish faced away,
palms plastered to the counter. “H-he brought a book to read. He hasn’t done
that since . . .”

“How do you want
me to handle it?” His voice held the calm of a glassy mountain lake.

She peered over
her shoulder at Bo’s expectant face. “Would you mind reading to him? He’s had
trouble sleeping recently, and it might help.”

“Okay.” He
sauntered over to Bo and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, bud, want me to
read that book to you?”

Bo grinned wide,
his eyes almost disappearing, then latched onto Andy’s hand and tugged him
toward the sofa. Andy sank to the cushions and propped a pillow behind his back
while Bo wiggled onto his lap.

“What reading
material do we have here?”

“It’s my horse
book.”

Her stomach
landed at her feet.
His favorite book.
Would it be too much for him to
handle?

Warm and
relaxing, Andy’s voice soothed her soul like a gentle summer rain. A few
minutes later he grew quiet and rotated his head toward her. “He’s out. Want me
to carry him to bed?”

He couldn’t
possibly be asleep. Trish hurried to the sofa. The sight of her son sleeping
peacefully in Andy’s arms brought quick tears that flashed both hot and cold.
She moved her lips to speak, but no words sounded. Instead she pointed the way
and followed.

Andy laid Bo in
his bed and gently covered him with a blanket, his jaw pulsing. He stood, with
his gaze locked on Bo for a moment, then glanced at her, an inscrutable
expression on his face. “We need to talk.” His eyes bored into hers, exposing
every inch of her soul.

“Let me turn on
the lamp for Bo first.”

“I’ll wait in the
family room.” He pivoted and strode away.

Trish closed her
eyes.
God, help me know what to do and what to say. I don’t understand
what’s happening, and I’m scared.

A verse she’d
memorized as a child flooded her thoughts.
What time I am afraid, I will
trust in Thee.
Yes, trust. That’s what she needed to do, but why did she
constantly require a reminder?

Chapter 12

A
ndy escaped to the
safe and comfortable confines of the family room and rubbed a hand across his
mouth, the evening stubble on his chin making a scratchy sound. He wandered to
the back window that. The meadow, now dark and fathomless like beckoning deep
water, appeared both cool and menacing. Too late. He was already in way over
his head.

It would be far
too easy to get used to this routine of home and family. But was it the right
thing to do? He raked a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck.
Why had he dared to test troubled waters? The undertow tugged at him now,
drowning him in “what-ifs.”
God, give me wisdom.

Trish’s footsteps
sounded on the hard-wood floor behind him, and he turned. She didn’t smile.
“Would you like a Dr. Pepper?”

“Yes, please.”

A study in casual
elegance, she glided to the kitchen, sans shoes. Ballerina-like, with long
limbs and a slender neck, she reminded him of a graceful swan afloat on a sea
of trouble. Her hands trembled as she removed two glasses from the
well-organized cabinet, filled them with ice, and opened a two-liter. The fizzy
liquid hissed, then sizzled and popped as she poured it over frozen cubes.

He took the glass
she offered, then trailed behind her to the mossy-green sofa. He sank down on
the opposite end and searched for a way to start the conversation.

Trish perched on
the edge of the cushion, as if allowing herself the option of a fast getaway.
“This is awkward, Andy, but it needs to be said.” She ran a hand up one arm.
“Bo is getting attached to you, and it scares me.” The murky depths of her dark
eyes swam with worry.

“I’m scared,
too.” Did he dare reveal his fear of giving them his heart, only to have it
crushed?

“I can’t take the
chance of you backing out of his life.”

He looked her
square in the eye, a nerve rippling in his jaw. “I wouldn’t do that to him.”

Her scouring gaze
softened. “No. I don’t believe you would.” The softly-spoken words carried a
wellspring of sadness. She sipped from her glass, then returned it to the
wooden coaster. “In all fairness to you, I should tell you our days in Miller’s
Creek are most likely numbered.”

Andy’s heart
plunged, and he lolled his head back against the couch to stare at the
rough-hewn cedar beams. Why worry about things beyond his control? He’d sought
God’s guidance on this move and had to trust that things would work out
according to His plan. “You mentioned earlier that Bo’s has problems sleeping.
Anything else?” He turned to look at her.

She closed her
eyes momentarily, her face awash with pain. “Nightmares, sucking his thumb,
barely letting me out of his sight, trouble at school . . .” Her voice ebbed
away.

Andy’s chest
tightened. “Does he ever talk about the accident?”

“No.” Her head
drooped, her thick brown hair curtaining her expression like a waterfall over a
dark cave.

He resisted the
urge to shove the curtain away. “Is he seeing a counselor?”

Trish nodded,
hugged herself, and rocked back and forth. She continued to slump, her shoulder
blades protruding from her back in bony angles. “He’s been diagnosed with
post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Post-traumatic
stress, the same stuff soldiers endured after a battle. Shell-shocked—the
perfect description for the hurting little boy. “How is he around horses?”

Trish visibly
stiffened and raised her head, a frown hovering above muddy-watered eyes. “I
don’t allow him around the horses anymore.” Her words were liquid steel.

He shifted in his
seat, propped his right ankle on the opposite knee, and laid an arm along the
back of the couch. “Did he enjoy horse riding before?”

At first she
didn’t answer. Instead she peered down at her hands. “He loved it. In fact,
he’d just gotten his first horse earlier in the year.” She blinked slowly, her
expression blank, an icy mask frozen by haunting memories.

How far could he
push without sending her over the edge? It didn’t matter. He needed to know.
More importantly, she needed to know. “Has he expressed an interest in riding
again?”

Her shoulders
rose and then shimmied down with her ragged exhale. “I’ve seen him looking at
the horses, but he hasn’t said anything. Why all the questions?”

“Because I think
it would be good for him to ride again. He feels disconnected right now, like
nothing will ever be the same.”

“His father died.
Nothing
will
be the same.”

“So you want him
to go on being like this?” His words sounded harsh, but she had to face the
facts. He pressed his lips together and sent an unvoiced prayer to heaven.
“Look, Trish, I know this is hard, but you basically have two choices. You can
either find a way to help him back from the dark place he runs away to, or you
can encourage it in a roundabout way by pretending everything’s okay. If we
don’t help him, he might run away and never come back.”

Her mouth opened,
then clamped shut, her eyes afloat with angry tears. “We? What ‘we?’ I
appreciate what you’re trying to do, but he’s my responsibility. Not yours.”
The pain-filled words were strangled with emotion. “You can’t just fix people
and situations like you fix a broken faucet.”

Andy started to
answer, but then shook his head. “I don’t want to fight, Trish. I only want to
help.” He brought a hand up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. At
the same exact time she leaned toward him, and they were suddenly nose to nose.
His gaze lowered to her lips, his heart pounding like a jackhammer.

Suddenly the air
was pierced by a terror-filled scream.

Trish’s head
whipped around. She bounded to her feet and raced to Little Bo’s room.

Andy followed and
flipped on the light. The room reeked of urine.

Bo’s hair clung
to his forehead in damp, sweaty tendrils, and the sheets tentacled his feet. He
writhed about, as if pursued and captured by submerged monsters.

Trish’s face
paled, and tears rivered down her cheeks as the ocean-blue sheets beneath her
son’s body darkened. “He wet the bed. He hasn’t done that since he was two.”
Her voice was an agonized whisper, and her knees buckled.

Andy positioned
an arm around her shoulder to steady her. “It’s okay, Trish. Let me help.”

She shrugged off
his arm. “I don’t need your help!” Trish sank to her knees at the side of the
bed, her attention centered on her son, her long fingers stroking his arms and
face. “Hey, sweetie, it’s okay. You just had a bad dream.”

Little Bo jerked
awake and bolted upright, his mouth hinging open as he sucked in great gulps of
air. With eyes like deep, dark pools, he satisfied his cavernous mouth with his
thumb.

Trish gathered
her son to her chest, the fear and despair on her face slicing through Andy. If
only she’d let him in.

He bent down
close. “Hey, buddy, I have bad dreams sometimes, too. Wanna talk about it?”

Bo shook his head
and stared blankly at the soaked sheets, streams sliding silently down his
chubby cheeks.

All Andy could do
was place a hand on each of their shoulders, on his heart a prayer, and on his
lips salt-water tears.

* *
* * *

Later that week,
Trish swung open the heavy wooden door to City Hall and clopped across the
well-worn oak floors to where Wanda Cates, the city secretary, typed away at an
old Remington. Her half-lens reading glasses, complete with a dangling beaded
chain, perched on the end of her long nose.

Wanda continued
pecking away, her mouth set in an unyielding line, until she reached the end of
whatever-it-was she was doing and glanced up. “Why, Trish, I didn’t know it was
you. Why didn’t you say something?” The words were spoken in her typical nasal
twang. “How ya’ doin’, girl?” She scampered from behind the metal desk and
engulfed Trish in a hug.

“Fine.”

“Well, my
goodness, don’t you look all business-like?” Wanda stepped back to take in her
attire, her gaze halting at Trish’s hair. Her lips twitched. “Don’t think I’ve
ever seen you wear your hair up like that.”

Obviously not
intended as a compliment.

The older woman
moved back to her chair and plopped down. “Steve’s not in right now. He’s at
Granny’s having coffee with the old geezers.”

“That’s okay. I’m
actually here to see Andy Tyler.”

Wanda’s dark
eyebrows waggled up her forehead. “Oh, I see.” Her tone matched her facial
expression, both of which screamed busybody. “You know, when I first met Andy,
I didn’t much care for him, but he’s a really nice guy. Not that you’re
looking, but if you ask me, he’d make great husband material.”

Alrighty, then.
“Well, I’d better go. Don’t want to be late. For my business meeting.” She
over-emphasized the last words, then waved and headed up the stairs.

Trish hesitated
outside Andy’s office, tugged on the front of her gabardine jacket, and checked
her pulled-back hair with trembling fingers. A bobby pin had loosened its grip
in the May wind, so she secured it, then with a cleansing breath, assumed her
business persona and opened the 50’s-movie-detective-style door to Andy’s
temporary office. Just here to do her job and then leave.

The room still
smelled of fresh paint, and gorgeous natural light spilled in from the tall
windows lining the outer wall of the room. What an awesome place to paint. The
thought took her by surprise, and she pushed it away.
No.
Painting was
something the old Trish enjoyed. The new Trish didn’t have time. Instead, she’d
become father, mother, and sole bread-winner for a very troubled little boy.
That was all that mattered.

Andy swiveled in
his chair, the phone to his ear. He grinned and held up one finger. “Yes, Mr.
Thacker, I can meet with you later this afternoon. Will three work for you?”

Otis Thacker? Why
would he need Andy’s services? She glanced around the office that overlooked
the city square and chomped down on her bottom lip. The focal wall, a bullet
gray, contrasted nicely against the exposed brick of the outer wall.

“My retainer fee
is five hundred dol—” Andy’s eyebrows shot up suddenly. “Yes sir, I know that
sounds like a lot, but if you compare it to the amount other attorneys charge,
it’s quite reasonable.”

A loud, irate
voice exploded through the phone, and Andy yanked it away from his ear,
grimacing. When the blast ended, he scowled and brought the receiver back to
his face. “Yes, sir. Thank you for your . . . er . . . insightful comments.
We’ll discuss it this afternoon. I look forward to our meeting.” The distaste
on his face contradicted his calm voice.

Andy hung up the
phone, released a puff of air, and gave his head a rapid shake as if trying to
dislodge the burning words. “Sorry about that.” He checked his wrist, then
grinned up at her, a devilish glint in his eyes and dimples. “Right on time. I
like that.”

An unauthorized
smile sprang to her lips, but she squelched it immediately. “I’ve managed to
find several house plans that match what we discussed.” Her business voice held
a tremor, but maintained the icy coolness she’d hoped for.
Come on, Trish,
you can do this.
She reached into her briefcase and secured the only file
folder that actually contained anything.

Both his smile
and the light in his eyes faded, and he motioned toward the conference table
next to the bank of windows. “Okay. Let’s have a look.”

Trish stepped to
the table, her business heels tapping against the wooden floors. She lowered
herself to the padded, metal-frame chair and opened the folder of house plans
she’d found online, avoiding eye contact and holding herself ramrod straight.
“I believe we discussed a reception room, conference room, and office space,
with living quarters in the back?”